Break Till I Shatter
by Radioheaded
Summary: Why was Castiel tapped to save Dean from Hell? My own take on how he saved Dean. (If you think you've seen this on AO3 or LJ, you have. I'm updating all my accounts to be the same on ff, lj and ao3 )


Castiel doesn't know why humans imagine hell as fire and brimstone. He knows the truth, has heard it from the mouths of those who'd ventured there before on missions, who'd come back to the hands of their brothers and sisters to be touched, Grace stroked and strengthened in the light of divinity, the very thing denied to them whilst in hell. Even angels are vulnerable there, he knows.

So when he's given an assignment, one of importance even he can't fully fathom, he doesn't hesitate, even after they tell him he will descend into the deepest pits of hell, the places people, angels, don't come back from. He's to pull someone back up with him, a man. They tell him it won't be easy, that his charge has gone from victim to torturer, slicing and cutting and ripping into the shreds of souls, into the humanity that's starting to slip from him too. He acknowledges the challenge, promises not to fail, even if it costs his own life. His isn't important anymore, not like that of the man who has caught heaven's eye, has been tapped as a savior, even after being damned.

Leaving Heaven is easy enough, as is falling through Earth. There's wind and light and the babble of human voices and thoughts and actions. He moves through souls on their way up, through bodies that don't notice the Grace that alights on their skin, touching lightly, the ghost of a fingerprint, before continuing on, downward. He's curious, and it's an opportunity to taste the good and bad, highs and lows that are collected, filed away with abstract interest.

When he stops, when he hits the floor of Hell, wings spread on the defensive, he really doesn't know where the fire and brimstone came from. Hell is freezing, adorned with the heartbreaking lack of hope, with the certainty of eternal horror and strife. Hell is the cold of the human soul in despair, but magnified, big enough to swallow countless down, to keep them locked away in the chill of winter with no heat, no warmth to ever comfort again.

This is why it is so easy to find Dean Winchester, his charge, his mission. The man, or what's left of him, burns bright in the frigid space, a star in the empty vacuum of space. Castiel observes details, the flickering in out illusion of a body with dirty-blonde hair and green eyes, a surprising, rare shade that catches him in a moment between breaths he doesn't take—the beauty of those eyes is a mockery in Hell, as is the torture on bodies that don't truly exist, the manipulation by demons of human minds, turning senses and synapses against their owners. But inside that cage of the mind, the projection of Winchester's earthly body lies fire, a fight that rages, echoing and pulsing like an oncoming storm.

He approaches his charge quickly, sparing no time. He's already borrowing what he has.

 _Dean._ He reaches out with his Grace, moving to wrap himself around the man, expecting to be welcomed, thanked even. But as he pulls the soul in close, as he opens himself, strand by strand, to contain the man, he's met with a struggle, rocked with images of teeth bared in a snarl, swears and slurs and a _Fuck you, Alistair,_ that's so chilling he finds himself taken aback, unsure, if just for a moment. But that's all it takes for the soul to slip free, to move around him and streak away, darting into shadowy corners.

 _No,_ he directs at Dean. _No, come back, please, I'm not Alistair. I'm here to help you!_ But Dean doesn't come back, so all Castiel can do is chase, moving swiftly after him. He's losing hope, wondering how he'll ever catch the man when the image of the human's brother comes to him, part of the information he'd received on his charge. He's seen Dean's life, every disappointment, joy, fear, and all the moments in between. His human's first kiss was in the fifth grade, where he was pinned down by a girl whose hair he pulled. He loved her, as only a child could. The memories of the brother, Samuel, are important. Without thinking, he sends them to Dean, images and fragments of brothers together, of abandonment, reunion, tears and the primitive, aching instinct of familial love. Castiel knows it's working when Dean slows a bit before stopping completely, turning on him with rage and a microscopic, atom-sized sliver of hope.

 _This is real,_ Castiel promises. _I'm real. Come with me._ And then he takes a chance, meshes himself with Dean before pulling up hard, willing himself away, away from the blank horror below. As they rise, Dean hyperventilates, or he would have, if he were corporeal. As is, his thoughts cloud and collide, turn on each other and collapse into heaps of doubt and shame and a broken sort of despair until it becomes a mantra, revolutions of _sorrysorrysorrybadforgivemeohgodfree?Nonotreal._

Castiel just hums, soothing the soul inside his Grace, curling around it until Dean quiets and they reach the surface, next to an unmarked, fresh grave.

 _I've got to let you go now,_ He murmurs, sending waves of comfort over the soul as it begins to panic, the surface shaking like wavelengths rippling in water. _I'll come back,_ he says. _I promise you, Dean. You have my word._ With that, he slides a hand through the loose dirt; the grave is shallow—it's only a foot or two until he's rearranging wood membranes, allowing the density to thin so he can touch the body within by the shoulder and rebuild it, allowing muscles to knit, organs to start, blood to flow. He reverses the rot, pushes the body back to its prime and eases the soul down his arm, letting it flow back to where it belongs.

 _No Castiel Safe,_ Dean's soul gasps, putting up a fight, trying to stay within the confines of Castiel's Grace. He grips the human's shoulder tighter, pushes until the light of his form intensifies, easing Dean in with whispers of everything being alright, that he's safe and sound. Dean listens eventually, follows Castiel's fingers, absorbing into his body's skin, settling around his restarted heart.

When Castiel returns to heaven, he is troubled. He reports to Zachariah, confirms that Dean Winchester is alive once more, that he did pull him, kicking and screaming, from depths thought to be beyond Heaven's help. But something troubles him and he confesses, something like guilt flitting across his features as he stares down, uncomfortable with looking his superior in the eye.

"I marked him by accident," he says. "After I lured him back with emotion. I—I don't know how, but it was the only thing that worked. I couldn't help myself." He surprises himself with the last remark—he's an angel, the epitome, the definition of control. And yet...

But Zachariah doesn't blame, doesn't even seem upset. "It's why we needed you, Castiel. You connect with humanity in a way others of our kind can't." Zachariah smiles, but there's something in his Grace, something swirling and peculiar that takes Castiel aback. But the angel continues. "For us to save Dean, he had to want to come back. Had to trust to come back. It's why we used you to lure him out. We knew you could make him feel safe."

Something about the way Zachariah frames his speech strikes Castiel as odd, but he can't pin it down, not just yet.

"Watch out for him, Castiel," The older angel says, waving his subordinate away. "Take care of him."

Castiel watches as Dean crawls out of his grave, as he raids a gas station, all the while thinking no, bad wrong should be in Hell, don't deserve this, no second chances for me. He starts speaking without meaning to, driven to comfort the human, to relieve the weight that presses down on him. But his voice shatters the glass of the windows, sends Dean to the floor in convulsions. Castiel speaks every language known to man; he doesn't know why he's disappointed to find out that Dean can't understand his.

Dean's day is spent claiming the people he loves, proving to them that he is himself, that he's not possessed or a shape shifter or something other than human, though he barely believes it himself. He senses Castiel, though the angel knows his charge doesn't actually remember him. So he waits, takes the eyes of a too-curious-for-her-own-good psychic and feels that uneasy guilt again. He decides to show himself after Dean makes his feeble attempt at a summoning.

He doesn't expect the bullets that enter and exit his chest cleanly, with zinging pops, but he isn't surprised. He knows Dean, inside and out. He puts the older hunter to sleep and confronts his charge, explains who he is and is met with skepticism and something else, something like a shadow in the sun, a drowning sort of sorrow and shame that emanates out of Dean's skin, settling around his form like a thick film.

"What's wrong?" Castiel asks, inches closer, cocking his head to get better insight into those eyes, the ones that struck him still before he ever actually looked at them. He feels the self-hatred, the way Dean wants to crawl out of his skin and just cease, disappear as if he'd never existed at all. It clinches something inside Castiel, a part that reaches for his charge invisibly, need and want partnering to try to help, to convince Dean that he was helped for a reason, that he is the righteous man. In that second, Castiel thinks he understands Zachariah's ideas of him, of the burden he's found in emotions that shouldn't cloud his judgment. Dean has to save the world. Castiel has to save Dean.

"You don't think you deserved it," he observes, finding the truth in the sheen that starts around Dean's eyes. "You did. You do." He moves on instinct now, pulling the rebuilt man close until they're breathing each other's air, close, but not as close as Castiel wants to be. He wants to mimic how he saved Dean, but his vessel ties him down, stuffs him into solid physicality. Instead, he places his hand to the print that has been seared on Dean's arm; the man's eyes roll back and a connection starts, an open channel between them that leaves nothing hidden and everything bare, vulnerable. Castiel doesn't know what will convince Dean of his worth, can't pretend to understand the full extent of human emotions, even as the same watered-down responses flit through him. So he just sends forgiveness, acceptance, and love that doesn't feel like the platonic kind of the brotherly bond he observed.

It's Dean who surges forward, pressing his lips into Castiel's own, starting them on a path the angel isn't sure he can come back from, but as the kiss opens, deepens, he can't be sure he cares. Not when he can feel his charge's raw need to feel something, anything good and the subtle hope that Castiel is the person to do it for him. "God," Dean moans into Castiel's mouth, slicking his tongue over the angel's clumsy-but earnest motions. He guides the movements, mixes gentle licks with harder nips, all the while flooding the bond with passion and the fear that this will end, that Castiel will be taken away, or worse, abandon him.

"It was you," Dean whispers when they break away, chin resting on Castiel's shoulder. The words wisp hot air over his neck, ghost-touches that send crackling electricity down his back.

"It was you." Eyes wide, ticking back and forth on his own eyes, Dean abandons the rest of his sentence. Castiel knows what he was going to say, anyway.

"I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," Castiel agrees, wishing Dean would speak again, body pulsing with need he doesn't quite understand. "I was commanded to."

"I-," Dean's voice stutters over thick syllables that die in his throat. He tries to clear it, once, twice, and then gives up, pulling Castiel into a rough embrace, the same sort he'd seen Dean share with his brother.

"You're welcome," Castiel says, as, internally, different words bloom, the truth in them glaring as they flicker through his mind:

 _I would have reached for you anyway, Dean Winchester._


End file.
